


Serpentine

by shizuns



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drarry, Gen, M/M, Other, POV Draco Malfoy, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 07:16:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20385802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shizuns/pseuds/shizuns
Summary: Someone such as him would have everything he pleases, everything handed down on silver platters. He didn’t ask to be, but he was perfect, he was his father’s son after all, and with the way he was raised he couldn’t help but carry this belief to the years he had lived— before the fall that is.But deep inside his heart, the only thing that he desired the most— he would never say it out loud, never would admit it— was a handshake.





	Serpentine

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for my 21st Century Literature class, wherein we were tasked to write a story from another character's perspective. I had to write this with a (rather short) time limit, and I'm kind of too busy with school to fix a bunch of errors, especially with events in the story (sorry for that! haven't read hp in years)

In the eyes of his mother, he was a gem. In the eyes of his father, the perfect heir. He was loved, loved so much by not only his family but everyone else too. Someone such as him who had grown up in wealth and privilege would have everything he pleases, everything handed down on silver platters. People in his social circle would dote on him, all begging for his attention, secretly hoping to elevate their statuses if the boy in question—more of a prince, were to even glance on them. In short, he was perfect, from the glistening silver hair to his porcelain skin, sharp angles and lean body. He didn't ask to be, but he was, he was his father's son after all, and with the way he was raised he couldn't help but carry this belief to the years he had lived— before the fall that is.

  
But deep inside his heart, all he had ever truly wanted was nothing his money could ever buy. It couldn't par with all the toys he had owned, the latest broomstick, the rarest book in his family library, or even the vaults of his family's assets, both his mother's and father's sides. The only thing that he desired the most— he would never say it out loud, never would admit it— was a handshake. An acceptance, a recognition, perhaps even a small smile. He would deny it, would take this fact to the grave, but every so often he would look back to that day—so many years ago already— of what could've happened if he didn't say what he had said, if the man with bright emerald eyes, uncontrollable hair, and fierce smile, the man who was loved by the world, loved more than he could ever be, shook his hand.

  
Despite how everyone treated him like he was perfect, he was raised in the environment that was full of prejudice, traditional ways and pureblood values ingrained at the back of his mind, suffocating him, never refusing to let him go, tightening even harder on the times when he would question them. Since then he did not even bother any longer, stopped questioning altogether, and letting those values blind him as he grew up.

  
He knew this was why that handshake was refused, but back then, he hadn't a clue. With someone as perfect as him, with his status and his charms, who in their right mind would ever turn him down? _Because you are a bigot_. Present him would tell his younger self.

* * *

  
It all began on the train. (It started at Madam Malkin's— _Hullo, Hogwarts too_ — but they hadn't the chance to introduce one another at that time. He wonders what would've happened if they got one. Would things be different, or would it be the same? He knows not to entertain these thoughts, he'll just get miserable again.) His younger self thought, _seeing as I am me, even the Chosen One would want to be my friend_. There was a lingering uncertainty there, however, a nervousness he was successfully hiding from everyone. He was a prince, his father's son, after all, and his family— both the mother and father side— is never nervous. But he was also just a boy, a boy who grew up with Harry Potter on everyone's lips, who grew up dreaming of being his friend, having play dates and running around playing quidditch on sunny afternoons, sleepovers and wishing they'd be in the same house, same dorm room together.

  
Perhaps he shouldn't have said what he had said, back in the robe shop, back at the train. Perhaps if he had known how wrong he was, if the boy gave him a chance, it would all be different. He could've gotten that handshake. They would probably even be the best of friends. Perhaps. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

  
For the first time in his life, he had been rejected. Covering his hurt, he had resorted to bitterness and jealousy, constantly bullying the boy with the lightning scar, craving for his attention. He was the prince, everyone begged for his attention. Why is he the one begging for it now? He hated admitting it, but he was— still— one of them, one of his adoring fans who wanted his emerald eyes to look straight at him, only him.

  
For years they had a dynamic that only the two of them could ever share. Strange fights, constant bickering, and competitions on who'll get the golden snitch first. It was always like that, and despite how it wasn't what he had hoped for both of them, it was _exhilarating_. Every sneer, glare, every biting comment, and even those duels they shared felt so good. He never felt so alive, so excited to tease him, so desperate to feel that way again. It was fine, he'd lie to himself at the end of the day. _It's fine, I don't need him anyway._

  
It was indeed quite fine, his mother doted on him like always, delivering him gifts and chocolates every month via owl. He had his cronies and his friends in his house, he had good grades and people at school looked up to him. But he couldn't shake this feeling off his head, of how his hand would feel empty, how he could've had something else, _someone else_. He could easily ignore all of these back then, easily forget that ache deep beneath his heart. But things would never go his way, he realizes.

* * *

  
He was loved, loved so much by his mother and father that he could have it all. And he loved them too, loved them so much that he could never disagree with them. Loved and idolized his father so much that he wanted to be like him, wanted to be the very same when he grew up, wanted to follow every footstep, even if he blindly walked the plank.  
He thought— forced himself to believe— that what he had done was right, his family and the purist values he had grown up with telling him that he was on the right side, that what he had done was for the greater good. It wasn't until the man who had made them promises had resided in his house, his aunt toying with hearts as if they were inanimate objects to play with, and the screams and cries of agony as the innocent were hit by unforgivable made him think, _really think_, about his decision.

  
It was an impossible task, and with the life of his family as the consequence, if he refuses or fails, he had no choice but to follow. Every day was a challenge, with the weight of his shoulders dragging him down so much, and those emerald eyes, suspicious and speculating, watching his every move, it wouldn't be long until he breaks.

  
He wanted to scream. Every time he felt those emerald eyes on him, he was tempted to run, run into his arms and bow into his knees, begging for his help. He wanted out _so badly_, but he couldn't, he was too much of a coward, too scared to disobey lest his parents were to perish.

  
At last, the moment he had been waiting for had happened. He broke down at an abandoned restroom, cried and cried and wished for nothing but the end of everything. And he saw once more those emerald eyes, boring deep into his soul, and he wanted to beg once again. What he said wasn't the same as what he had thought, however, and he was then left bleeding on the floor, with cuts everywhere on his body, red mixing with the clear waters.

  
He had to kill him, had to soil his slender hands— hands that were far too pretty to do something so vile— with the life of a renowned man. His hands were shaking, the night breeze causing goosebumps on his skin, clashing with the heat of the tears streaming down his face, and then it was over. The death eaters rejoice as the half-blood prince takes the man's life instead, and he couldn't breathe, too stunned— _frightened_— to say a word.

  
The days past by with a blur, and he had become used to muting the screams from the dungeons, already too loud for him to handle. He wanted to leave, to escape the house that no longer felt like home to him, but he couldn't leave. Couldn't abandon his mother who cared for him so deeply, who gave him everything that she could, and his father who he wanted nothing more than to gain his respect. He couldn't, for his family loved him so much, and he loved them back with the same intensity, that he couldn't risk their lives for the sake of doing what is right. Perhaps— no, he _is_ a coward, and he was so scared for his and his family's life that he couldn't ever leave them.

  
_And yet_, that day when the golden trio had arrived in the doors of his house, their knees on the floor of their drawing-room, he couldn't say it, couldn't say his name. He looked deep into those emerald eyes, those eyes he wanted badly to look at him for who he is, and not for who he was told to be, who his father made him be, and he couldn't say it. It was the one act of bravery that he had done in so long, that he _knew_, even with the risk of an unforgivable straight at him, even with the consequences he will have to face because of it, he knew, that he had done the right thing, the least he could do for the cause he so badly wanted to be part of. And as he lets his wand get taken by the

* * *

  
They meet once again in the room of hidden things. The room was ablaze with no chances of stopping. He thinks that this is his end, the end of a prince, no longer perfect— that fact was proven far too long ago already— and accepts his fate. He looks back at all the things he has done in his life, full of regrets, choices that were made for him, choices he never made on his own, thinks of emerald eyes and the hand that was never shook, and just sighs, closes his eyes, and waits for the fires to consume him.  
It doesn't come, and he blinks his eyes open to see shining emerald ones staring right at him, hand outstretched. He feels a sense of déjà vu as if they were eleven again and he asks for the Chosen One's hand in friendship. _Thank you_, he wants to tell him, but chooses not to, instead clinging to him and thanks him in his mind, for letting him live.

* * *

  
His mother calls his name, says it like a prayer, and his heart breaks into a million pieces. He doesn't want to leave his spot, the side he stands on which supports the cause he wanted to go with, but he loves his mother so much, and he doesn't want to ever hear her mouth his name that way ever again. Reluctantly, he walks slowly to his mother and father, trying so hard to prevent his tears from falling as his mother hugs him tight. "_Harry Potter is dead!_" the man who is the enemy shouts in victory and the side he had no choice but to stand with cheers, but he couldn't bring himself to join them. He thinks there is no hope anymore, that it is all gone and there is nothing left but to live the rest of their lives under tyranny and the sounds of agony.

  
Suddenly, the Boy Who Lived (_twice, twice!_) gets off Hagrid's hands and there is hope again. He doesn't know what he is doing, but he runs anyway. "_Potter!_" he shouts, throwing his wand to the Chosen One. It was the least he could do, knowing that he will have to go back to his family, that he will have to suffer the consequences in the future, but he did something for the cause, and it's all fine.

  
He walks away from the ruin and the anguish, walks side by side with the family he loves so much, and looks back one last time.

  
He wishes for a time turner, wishes he could go back to being eleven, asking for Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, Saviour of the Wizarding World, for his hand. Wishes that he wasn't molded as a ‘perfect heir' by his father, wishes that he was never loved that way by his family, for they loved him too much he had gone blind.  
  
He wanted to tell Potter— _Harry_— that he regrets everything, wants to ask for his forgiveness, wants to change into a new leaf and tell him if they could start over again. But he looks at him and sees the look on his face, surrounded by those whom he loves, those who love him, and he couldn't approach. He doesn't look like he belongs, or even looks welcome. Perhaps he still is a coward after all, that his name doesn't suit him, after all, dragons are known to be fierce and brave, but he shakes his head and continues to walk. He doesn't look back again.

* * *

  
He receives a parcel months after the war. He wonders if someone is set to curse on him, for no one has sent him letters ever since, not even his friends, who have left the country to start anew. (He wants to be like them sometimes, but then that would be running away again, another act of cowardice he doesn't want to do. He'd rather face the consequences and the backlash straight on.)

  
He opens the long box, and his eyes widen. It was his wand, ten inches, hawthorn wood, and a unicorn hair core. It doesn't feel the same anymore, with Harry bloody Potter winning it over, but he is glad nonetheless. He looks back to seven years ago and thinks if this is his way of forgiving him, or if it was just another act of the Saviour's kindness.

  
He doesn't dwell on the thought— refuses to, even if the guilt always plagues his nightmares— but he wishes for a time-turner once more.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! this is my first fanfic for the Drarry tag, even though I've been shipping (and reading) Drarry for years now. I'm not much of a writer, I usually write for school purposes to be honest, so I apologize for the mistakes. I hope you enjoyed reading anyway! comments are very much appreciated! :)
> 
> reach to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/dracoiuvr) or [tumblr](https://khao-co.tumblr.com/)!


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